Revelations
by green girlie
Summary: Written in a role-play format with the awesome AwesomePecan2. Zombie apocalypse AU: Alfred and Francis both have skeletons in the closet. Rated T for language and character death.


Francis sank down against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He checked his ammunition. "We're getting low again, Alfred. We'll need to make another raid soon."

Alfred breathed out harshly, running his gloved fingers through his dirty hair. "I know. But where the hell are we going to find anyone, dammit? We haven't seen anyone in weeks."

Francis laughed darkly. "It's not a matter of finding people, it's a matter of finding corpses. Or abandoned bunkers." He leaned back, stretching out his legs. "You Americans were fucking paranoid, you know that? But it came in handy."

Alfred smirked half-heartedly. "Fuck yeah it did. Can't say the same for the rest of the damn world, though, uh." He spit into the dirt, catching his breath. He looked up to the sky and cursed. "It's getting late. We should've found somewhere safe to settle in first. Shit."

Francis cussed under his breath. "Magnifique. And here's us with low ammunition." He laughed again, the sound harsh and scraping against his throat. "How would you like to go, mon ami? Out with a bang, or a whimper?"

"Fucking bang!" Alfred growled, hitting the butt of his shotgun against the dirt as if in protest to this damned apocalypse. He abruptly stood, motioning for Francis to follow suit. He looked away, scanning the vicinity. "Looks clear for now. Better not slow us down Franny, let's go!"

"How many times have I told you not to call me Franny?" Francis said, but the annoyance in his voice was half-hearted. He stood and lightly made his way down a street, finger poised on the trigger.

"Fucking bang," he murmured to himself, and shook his head, a grim smile playing around his lips.

They eventually found an abandoned house stripped bare of what once made it someone's home. It was also one of the few, or probably the only one, that didn't have corpses lying around or zombie brains blasted against the wall. They made quick work barricading it so they'd be safe for the night. Alfred flopped on the dusty couch, sighing tiredly.

"Long day," Francis commented, folding himself up onto the floor. "You feeling alright?"

Alfred kicked off his boots, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing up his glasses in the process. "Tired, duh. And starving. I'm going to die of hunger, not by those geeks out there. Shit... Fucking irony."

"Let them eat cake," Francis muttered. "You know, Marie Antoinette never actually said that. The sentiment was there - she was rather oblivious - but that sentence never came out of her mouth." He leaned back against the base of the couch, Alfred's legs. "Amazing how far a degree in French history will take you, non?"

Alfred stared up at the ceiling, but not really seeing it. "I never got why we had to learn history. Sure 'learn from the past so you don't make the same mistakes' or however that goes but I'd rather look forward, y'know? 'Specially in this hell hole."

Francis hugged his knees to himself. "You really believe there's a future? The end is now. It's happened. It's over. The book is closed. There's nothing left to read."

Alfred tensed, faces from his memories passing through his mind's eye. He frowned deeply, glaring at nothing. "Then fucking shoot yourself and get it over with. Why keep fighting for survival if you think it's pointless."

Francis shot a glance at Alfred. "Mon petit, did I say it was pointless? I'd rather live than die. But even you must admit that this is hell on earth."

Alfred raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "Will you stop it with the random French words, man. For all I know you could be calling me Fucktard!" Alfred's stomach chose that moment to rumble and he groaned, mourning their lack of food.

"Oh, poor American, cannot understand the simplest French words." Francis drummed his fingers on his leg. "Nothing to do but wait out the night and go on another raid," he said to the world in general. "Your stomach can be quiet enough not to wake the monsters, oui?

"That means 'yes'," he added.

Alfred childishly stuck his tongue out at the man. He sank down farther into the couch, grumbling. "S'not like the geeks sleep anyway. Those are monsters that're forever gonna haunt you."

Francis shivered involuntarily, then leaned back against Alfred's legs, turning his cheek to rest on one kneecap. "That is true."

Alfred stiffened. He took in a deep, slow breath and sat up, leaning forward so his bowed head hovered next to Francis'. He placed his hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. And though he wasn't that religious, he thanked God that he wasn't alone in this Hell on Earth, stuck with these monsters that had invaded the safety of daylight.

Francis' eyes fluttered closed, and his hand reached up to touch Alfred's on his shoulder. "I know I'm not her," he said softly. "Or him. Whoever it was you loved Before. But I hope I can suffice."

When everything-green eyes and messy yellow hair popped into his mind, Alfred's eyes snapped open. He nearly ripped his hand from under Francis' and shot up, stomping away. "I'm headin' to bed. See ya in the mornin..." He tried to ignore how his voice shook.

Francis stared after him, frozen. The pain that thudded through him had nothing to do with the hunger that gnawed at his belly or the anxiety that frayed his nerves. Too soon, he shrieked at himself inside his head. Too soon, too soon, you fool. And he stayed there on the floor that night, curled into himself, pretending that the shudders running through his body weren't dry sobs.

The dawn's light was beginning to peek through the ripped curtains of the window in the bedroom in which Alfred had stayed. Though he had not slept at all. His thoughts and confusing emotions swirling in his mind, combined with the groaning of the zombies outside, kept him awake most of the night. He shouldn't have reacted that way he had, but he supposed it was too late now. He forced himself out of bed and back to the living room. His guilt grew stronger when he saw Francis passed out on the floor. He kneeled down to shake him awake.

"Sacre bleu, rose, et vert," he mumbled sleepily. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais -?" Then he blinked, and saw Alfred, and smiled cautiously. "Oh. Good morning."

Alfred raised a brow. "Do I even want to know?" He returned the cautious smile, trying to apologize for the night before, but mostly to hide the fact he hadn't slept a wink.

Francis noticed, though he hid it with a cheeky grin. "Are you alright? You look even more a fright than usual."

Alfred rose with the man, scoffing at him. "Could say the same 'bout you. Looks like you've stopped trying to keep up with your looks and appearance." The same face from last night popped into his mind, but he quickly pushed it back. He felt the need to act as if he was batting a fly away.

Alfred walked to a window and peered outside. "Looks like a lot of them moved on during the night. Wanna see if we can find a police station?"

Francis tossed his head. "At least I have a charming personality." He stretched and yawned languorously.

"Sure. Let's go."

They searched separately but Alfred made sure to keep Francis well within sight. Alfred peered inside every car and though some people lay dead inside, he still felt guilty when he took whatever supplies they had with them. Still no ammo or guns. He doubled back to Francis after a while. "Find anything good?" He popped a few stale crackers into his mouth, holding out the box to Francis.

He took a cracker. "A few rounds, but no big stores of ammunition. We'll have to scrounge more elsewhere. Also, found some empty bleach bottles, good for carrying water."

Alfred couldn't help but grin. "Nice. But before we head out I'ma hijack a car and steal some gas. Help me out with that, yeah." Without waiting for a reply, he headed to find a car that was sturdy enough to keep them safe, hold enough of their supplies, and wouldn't eat up all of the gas.

Francis puffed his cheeks in an exhale and followed Alfred.

Alfred took the three red plastic canisters from the back of the mini-van still in good condition and handed one to Francis. "It's still decent on gas and hijacking a car is pretty simple if you know what to do. All we need to do is get as much gas as we can into these. I'll show ya."

It took longer than Alfred would have liked due to Francis' inexperience, and he suspected he would already be on the road if he were by himself, but they were off soon enough. He was just thankful the air-conditioning still worked.

Francis drummed his fingers on the armrest and closed his eyes as the cool air hit his face. "So. Next town. Where do you want to go?"

Alfred carefully weaved his way through the last few cars left abandoned on the road leading out of town. He sighed with relief when he made it out. "I still wanna find a police station for weapons. Maybe the back-up generators are still working and we can get a shower while we're at it, uh? Dude, that'd be fucking awesome! Hm, a fire station might work for that also..."

Francis sighed dreamily. "A shower. Mon dieu, I haven't had a shower in ... months." He laughed. "My hair must be destroyed. C'est trop triste." ((It's too sad.))

He could almost hear Gilbert snarking in his ear about it, and Antonio's lazy chuckle. He swallowed hard and looked out the window.

Alfred smiled, almost sadly, as a memory came to mind, unbidden. "My brother's fussy 'bout his hair. He's not vain 'bout it like you seem to be but he liked to take care of it since his was kinda long." He gave Francis a quick, sidelong glance.

Francis' eyes darkened in sympathy and understanding. "Your brother Matthew, right?"

Alfred frowned. "Yeah. Keep forgetting you knew each other."

He shrugged. "Well, I didn't know you until after the world had ended. So I suppose it isn't surprising."

Alfred grunted in response. But the lack of sleep the previous night was getting to him and he found it harder to concentrate so he kept talking. "How'd you know each other, anyway. He never properly explained, the shit."

"Classes," Francis said amusedly. "I was the student aide for his French literature class. We became friends over croissants and Victor Hugo." He shot a critical eye at Alfred. "Are you sure you're lucid enough to drive? You really do look dreadful."

Alfred answered with a long-suffering sigh. "Okay Fancy Franny. You wanna drive? Be my guest. Just remember, we drive on the opposite side of the road this side of the pond, 'kay."

"Only British people drive on the left side of the road, Alfred. We in continental Europe drive on the same side of the road that you do," Francis said crisply.

Alfred stopped the car abruptly. "Then that douchebag lied to me!" He struggled with his seatbelt for a bit then threw the door open.

Francis stayed there, watching, startled. "Alfred?" he asked, cautiously. "Are you quite alright?"

Alfred took a deep breath. "Yeah yeah, lay off man. C'mon and drive for a bit. This road should be going straight for a while."

Francis sighed. "D'accord." ((Okay.)) He switched seats with Alfred and began to drive. After a while they did find a police station, and there was even a small refrigerator untouched and unspoiled in one of the back rooms. "Lotto!" said Francis, humming approvingly.

Alfred had found a fairly decent amount of weaponry and ammunition and quickly stuffed them all into the spare bags left behind and placed them in the car. He had gone back inside and couldn't help but let out a cheer when he found the back-up generators were working after all. Alfred sighed, a heavy weight on his shoulders lightening as the hot water cascaded over his strained body. He hadn't exactly paid attention to himself the past few months, so he was honestly shocked to see that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. He sighed again, letting his mind wander as he just stood under the water.

Francis scrubbed fiercely all over, as though to clean the last six months away, the memories. He didn't want to be what he was now. He wanted to go back to being what he had been. But at the same time, he felt keenly that he could no longer be that person: the carefree, flirtatious dandy.

The apocalypse had shocked Francis into becoming a harder, bitterer character, and it left him wondering whether it had truly been a transformation, or just a stripping away of the useless outer layers.

All the same, he mourned the brittle quality of his hair as he toweled it dry.

Alfred placed his hands on the cool tile, bowing his head under the spray of water. He stretched, the muscles and bones aching throughout his body as he did. "Is this what he feels like to be an old man, Art?" he asked softly to his feet. The last of the dirty water swirled into the drain, becoming clearer after several moments.

He didn't hear the shower curtain open or close, but he didn't jump when he felt hands, slim hands as familiar to him as his own, graze his waist, fingers fluttering up over his sides. Kisses peppered his back, from shoulder to shoulder. Pressure built in the back of his eyes. He took a deep shuddering breath, knowing that when he turned around there would be no one there. And frustration and anger swelled in his chest. He slammed off the water, quickly dried and dressed himself.

So he was becoming delirious now, was he?

He paused in his tirade, hearing the spray of water from the stall at the other end of the shower room. When it turned off, he walked out as quickly as he could. He wondered if it was possible to scrub your brain clean of things you didn't want stuck in your head anymore. And of thoughts that you shouldn't be thinking in the first place.

The clothes were stiff with sweat and grime, but better than no clothes at all.

Francis trailed a hand on the wall as he walked around the place, humming faintly. He stopped when he realized he'd been humming "99 Luftballons".

It had been Gilbert's favorite song. Antonio and Francis had teased him about it, as it surely was not as manly as Gilbert made himself out to be, but when he'd forced them to listen to it they understood. A song doesn't have to be dripping testosterone to be awesome. And that was when Francis had learned to appreciate the depth of their friendship.

It had taken a while for Francis to screw up the courage to tell his friends that he was gay. But they'd been ever so accepting.

Last night had thrown that into sharp relief. Who was he to assume that Alfred was the same way? Idiot.

He spotted Alfred on the sofa, and made a noncommittal sound.

Alfred's sleep was filled with dreams and fog. He could hear their voices but he couldn't see them clearly. He could feel them there. And the clearer their images became the darker the atmosphere. From hazy pleasant dreams, to clear horrific nightmares, he relived the memories of separating from his brother in the chaos of the mob, relived the moment Arthur's hands were ripped from his... and his screams...

Alfred jolted awake, breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. His eyes stung again, terribly so. His lips trembled, his throat constricted, stopped breathing for a moment. After a long time, his heart settled and his breathing evened out.

He sat on the couch in the abandoned lounge room where his exhaustion and lack of sleep the previous night had apparently caught up with him and forcefully dragged him into sleep. He didn't know how long he sat there, keeping his mind carefully blank, chin resting in his hands. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face, absently enjoying the clean feeling and rested back against the couch. And when he heard a muted noise he looked up to see Francis standing there, back in his grubby clothes like he was. Alfred briefly wrinkled his nose.

"Ready to head out or you wanna kick back here tonight?"

Francis shrugged. "I like it here. I could probably stay here for a couple of days, actually. But what about you?" He wondered why Alfred had wrinkled his (cute) nose, then dismissed it.

(Not cute, not cute, stop thinking about it. Please.

God. Why did it have to be him, and why _now_, at the end of the world?

If there was a God, He really was a sick bastard.)

For just an instant Alfred gave Francis a very brief, almost imperceptible once-over. He immediately looked away from the man and did his damn best to keep his eyes off of him.

*No. We shouldn't stay. I don't want to fucking stay here. Fuck. For fuck's sake.*

Alfred stood. "Then I'm going to make a few rounds. We shouldn't make ourselves too comfortable here though. Just in case." He rounded the coffee table in an attempt to put as much distance between them as possible.

He should not have any kind of thought about him, especially when Arthur just... And this guy was probably not even... The few rounds helped keep his mind focused and other directed, even if it was just for a short while.

Francis watched, bemused and confused, as Alfred left. He spent the time barricading the station, and sorting through their provisions, and cleaning his weapon, singing all the while.

"Au soleil ou sûr la pluie, à midi ou à minuit, il y a tous que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées."

He tried very hard to remember the Champs-Elysées as he had left it a year ago, bustling and bright and beautiful, and not imagine it as it might be now. His beautiful Paris, trapped in memory like a fly in amber. (And just as dead.)

He cursed, loudly, and did not notice Alfred returning.

It turned out there were not that many zombies around. Using a silencer on his rimfire pistol so that he wouldn't attract attention, Alfred killed only a handful of them in a matter of a few hours before he spent the remaining hours scouting and finding nothing. The sun was setting by the time he made it back to the station.

He went back to the lounge with a couple of beer cans in hand and a bottle of wine, the only one left. But he paused before he entered, hearing singing. He would have wondered who but obviously it could be no one but Francis, although his mind had tried to wander off to someone else. He scowled, rolling his eyes as he entered to see the man cleaning his weapons.

He heard Francis curse. He would have liked to ask why. Would have asked how he knew to clean weapons, what he was singing. But asking meant he was interested, and he was not interested in the least. He took a giant swig of beer, setting the rest down in front of the focused man.

Francis startled out of his reverie and smiled warmly before remembering to put the wry indifferent mask back on. "Oh. How long have you been here without my noticing? If you wanted me to serenade you, you need only have asked."

He carefully reassembled his gun. "How were the rounds? Any 'geeks', as you call them?"

"Not really. We should be good for a few days." Alfred took another swig from his beer can, narrowing his eyes at the Frenchman. He didn't like that smile he gave him. He didn't want to imagine what it was about.

"And don't flatter yourself, I just got in." He wrinkled his nose briefly again. Arthur had always told him it was easy to tell when he was even a little displeased by the unconscious action, but it had always been a rare thing for him to do anyway.

It had been happening enough lately that Alfred was beginning to realize he actually did do it, and Arthur hadn't been just teasing him.

Francis smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes. "Bien sûr. J'avais espéré, mais - alors. C'est dommage." ((Of course. I'd hoped, but – well. It's too bad.)) He rose, grabbing a can of beer. "There are bunks down the hall. I am going to avail myself of one of them. The supplies have all been sorted." He flashed an empty grin full of teeth. "I would have tried to do something with the food, but it was a bit pointless. At this point I'd rather call it fuel than anything else."

Alfred could feel his face contort into a slight scowl. Hoped for what? What the hell was too bad? Anger and frustration built up inside his chest, swelled like a balloon.

"Thought you'd like the wine better." He didn't know why he latched onto that and nothing else, but he did and he held on tight.

*Bastard! Don't smile if you don't mean it you two-faced assbutt!*

Francis stopped, and stared down at the can in his hand. "I do like wine better. But I always drank beer with my friends. Gilbert wouldn't drink anything else." His eyes flicked up to meet Alfred's, saw the anger there. Helplessness flooded him. He shook his head and took a step back. "Thank you for the thought. I'm ... going to bed now."

(What the hell did Alfred want from him?

Did he know?

Did he hate him?

Oh, _God_ ...)

It wasn't until Francis left the room did Alfred realize the anger and frustration he felt had shown on his face. That was one thing he had never been good at hiding, and it was the one thing he was always careful of keeping in check. But now...

Now...

He tried to convince himself the only reason he had these confusing feelings for Francis was because he was missing Arthur, that he was a broken man with needs and he was just seeking out what he wanted from the only living thing left and available to him.

Maybe driving Francis away through his anger was the best thing for everyone, including a dead man.

Francis flopped onto a bunk, staring at the ceiling. That was it. Alfred knew, and despised it, and despised him.

The back of his head insisted otherwise: if Alfred hated him, he wouldn't have gotten wine if he thought Francis would like it. But the voice was small and weak, and easily squashed.

His friends, if they were here, would scoff at this pessimism, and tease him heavily for it, and take matters into their own hands. But they were not here. God only knew what had happened to them.

He shut his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep.

Alfred drank three cans of nasty beer. He wasn't completely drunk, but the small buzz was enough to make him at least inwardly honest with himself, and he hated where his thoughts had taken him.

He did like Francis. Genuinely, even though he barely knew the man. But every time he shoved his hand in his jacket's inner pocket over his heart and felt the small box there, immense guilt swelled within his chest instantly.

He had grown up with Arthur for more than half his lifetime. He had been his best friend, his sidekick, his partner in crime and, above all else, the love of his life (once he had realized it himself, of course). He had been brutally ripped right out of his hands less than two months ago and now he was making eyes at a man he still barely knew.

Alfred covered his face with his hands, suppressing a sob. What did that mean? Had he just deluded himself all those years? It was a punch to the gut, how much it felt like a betrayal to Arthur and an insult to his memory; their time together. Did Arthur really mean nothing to him?

It couldn't be.

It _couldn't_ be.

Francis dreamed of a world in which there were only corpses: no zombies, no humans, only the dust and the terrible silence. He stumbled across one body, and his foot caught in the skull. When he looked back, he saw that it had been Gilbert.

He screamed himself awake.

(He would have been ashamed of this, this weakness, but his mind was still echoing with horror and fright and overwhelming _worry_ for his friends, and all he could do was curl into the sheets and sob, and pray to a God he no longer quite believed in that Gilbert and Antonio were safe.)

Alfred was drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness. But the dreams, more like images, still seeped into his subconscious; dreams of people he hoped were still alive and fighting to survive. There was his friends the Vargas twins, Ludwig, Kiku and Im Yong Soo, even Ivan and Yao. There was his family, his parents, his brothers Matthew and Bruce, and everyone else. And then there was Arthur, the one who appeared the most, so much that the images of him became blurry and mixed up and warped.

Arthur smiling and laughing, Arthur yelling and crying, Arthur gasping and moaning; Arthur. Arthurarthurarthurarthur, Arthur _screaming_...

Alfred woke with a jolt, Arthur's screams echoing in his mind, horrible and terrifying. But then his mind quickly registered where he was and when his mind registered the only person that sudden scream could belong to, his mind instantly changed gears.

He jumped up, snatching up his pistol and running to where Francis was. Quickly but cautiously he found the hall with the bunkers, his panic-filled adrenalin pumped furiously through his veins.

"Francis!"

Francis buried his face in his pillow. "Non, non, laissez-moi tranquille, s'il vous plaît ... s'il vous plaît," he whispered. "C'est bien, je vais bien. Laissez-moi tranquille." ((No, no, leave me alone, please … please. It's fine, I'm fine. Leave me alone.))

Alfred was barely breathing, snapping his eyes every which way for any sign of zombie infiltration. He didn't know which bunk Francis was in, but the faint muttering in French led him to him. His face was buried in his pillow. Alfred shook his shoulder. Had it been a nightmare?

"Hey." His voice shook as he spoke loudly, attempting to keep the fear he felt out of his voice. "Hey, you okay? You fuckin' scared me, man, thought a geek got in or somethin'." Alfred said lightly, trying to sound even a little cheerful.

"Francis?"

Francis kept his face hidden in his pillow. "No geeks. Just - just a dream." He laughed shakily, the sound muffled. "Just a goddamn dream."

Alfred frowned and without thinking he plopped himself onto the edge of the bed, sighing into his hands tiredly.

"You don't sound fine, Fran. You don't have to tell me 'bout it, just don't lie." Alfred felt stupid for saying so, but through the subtle tone of fear in his voice he grinned, trying to soothe his panic induced adrenaline. "Matt would probably throw a fit at you if he was here, uh?"

Francis curled harder into himself. "But he's not here. Nobody's here. And we don't know where they are, and we don't know if they're safe, and it _hurts_."

He turned, and stared at Alfred hollowly. "How long are we supposed to stand it, not knowing?

"You want to know what I dreamed about? I dreamed about accidentally stepping on – " his voice cracked " – my best friend's skull. And I can't exactly call him up and say, 'Hey, Gilbert, what a stupid dream, huh?' and - and hear him laugh that funny laugh of his." His voice slipped into a harsh German accent. " 'Kesesese, Francis, you wino, you should stop drinking so much. It's giving you unawesome dreams.' Even though, even though I only had _one_ beer last night, and I can't even get _drunk_ off your stupid American beer, it's so goddamn weak, I bet it's not even alcoholic really ..."

Without meaning to, Alfred let out a sharp bark of laughter. It felt at odds with the steady flow of immense irritation and anger welling up inside of him. He knew it was irrational and stupid, but for whatever reason, Francis just grated on his last nerve.

He shot Francis a petulant scowl, anger flaring brighter just by the sight of him curled up pathetically. "First of all, I didn't ask you to tell me about the goddamn nightmare you had. Secondly, if you hate American beer so much, then you should've drank that stupid wine I found," - the For You part went unsaid, though he hoped Francis would hear it in his tone, just so he could feel like shit about it – "you whiny _ass!_"

He wanted to grab Francis by the collar and haul him off the bed, using the good two inches he had on him to lift him up so his toes just barely supported him. He wanted to do that and shake him until he either returned to his senses, or his neck snapped. Instead he shot up off the bed, paced, did an odd turn in place because he was just so irrationally furious, and rounded on Francis, pointing an accusing finger and not bothering to keep his temper in check.

"And thirdly! Thirdly, we stand it because we have to! Alright? Goddamn it, you always sound for all the world like you already believe they're all fucking dead!"

Francis sat bolt upright, his eyes hardening. "It's better than believing they're alive and then finding proof of the alternative. Better to have never hoped than to have hope crushed."

He stood, and jabbed a finger into Alfred's chest. "And if you _hate_ me so goddamn much, why the _hell_ do you pretend to care?"

Alfred growled. "So you believe we're the only ones capable of surviving in this hell hole? What the hell keeps you going, then, if everyone you loved is fucking dead? What the hell drives you to survive, if not even the slightest chance you'll get to see the most important person in your life again, or your best friend, or anyone else that mattered to you Before? Don't talk to me about having no hope at all, because I am absolutely positive you'd be long dead by now if that was the case!"

And Alfred did end up grabbing Francis by the collar, and he did shake him slightly, but it took all he had not to punch him in the face, unless he wanted to risk the (low) chance of zombies catching the scent from way out there and trapping them as they tried to get in.

"I've had the most important person in my _life_ literally ripped right out of my hands. I had to hear him screaming my name and watch as he was torn to shreds. I had thought about ending my life with his but I didn't. You know why? Because I knew he'd hate me for it. And I knew that there were others, just as important to me, who were out there and who I needed to get to. Whether they're alive or dead doesn't matter right now. I'll deal with it when the time comes.

"What I _hate_ about you is how little faith you have in the strength of your friends."

Francis stilled. Unshed tears burned his throat and eyes, but he smiled; rather, stretched his face into a grotesque mockery of a smile. "I have no family, and the kind of person I was Before was the kind who collected 'friends' and 'lovers' the way other people collected baseball cards. Matthew, Gilbert, and Antonio were the exception.

"Antonio and Gilbert were in a car crash, Before. Severe concussions, and Gilbert's leg was shattered. They were in physical therapy when It Happened. _You_ tell _me_ the odds.

"I _want_ them to be alive and safe. I want it so badly I can't even think straight. But I've learned, Since, that wishing does _nothing_ except waste precious time.

"I live because I have to," he snarled. "I live because there's nothing else left."

Alfred still held Francis in his hand, eyes narrowed, but the rage and fight he had in him slowly slipped away. "You know, one day that isn't gonna be enough. Surviving just for the sake of living won't be enough.

"Hoping is not deluding myself into thinking that everyone I loved and still love from Before are alive and well. You should know it's not the same as that, and neither are wanting and wishing. I can't tell you how, and I don't know what your life was like Before, but I can tell you I learned to tell the difference between all four of them from what I've been through." Alfred let Francis go and took a step back from him. A deep frown marred his once youthful face, wondering how Francis would take his next words.

"And if you truly believe you have nothing to live for, you should know that I consider us friends or just comrades if you don't want to go that far. At least... I am yours, regardless if we get along or not. But no matter which one, that makes you important to me, and so you're one of the people I live and survive for Now."

Alfred took in a shuddering breath, unconsciously placing a hand over the box above his heart. He walked out of the room, having nothing else to say.

Francis wanted to follow Alfred. He wanted to ask what Alfred had meant by "yours". (Just because his heart had leapt to love rather than friendship did not mean it was true, he reminded himself painfully. And only months ago Alfred's loved one had died.)

Instead, he stayed frozen. Don't hope. Don't dream, don't even _think_ -

Oh, hell. Who was he kidding.

He stalked after Alfred, muttering in French.

"Tu sais que des mots comme ceux-ci ont un double sens. Que t'essaie de jouer avec ma tête? 'Tu es le mien' - ainsi, si j'ai dit 'je suis le tien,' alors quoi? Dieu, je ne sais pas - faire si j'ai dit 'j'ai été le tien pour maintenant environ un mois, et je ne sais pas pourquoi, et je ne peux pas l'expliquer, mais c'est vrai." ((You know that words like those have double meanings. Are you trying to mess with my head? "You are mine" - well, if I said "I am yours," what then? God, I don't know - what if I said "I've been yours for about a month now, and I don't know why, and I can't explain it, but it's true."))

He'd gotten progressively louder as he said it, until he was in the same room as Alfred, almost shouting. He stopped, drew in a breath, and switched to English. "Alfred, what did you mean?"

Alfred stopped in his retreat, not paying attention in the slightest to where his feet had taken him. He stood, frozen and rigid. What? No. _No_. He hadn't meant it like that! The stupid man, he had just called him a friend only a moment before!

I am _your_ friend, even if you aren't mine. That's what he'd meant. And now Francis was implying... what? _Why?_ Shit. _Shit._ Oh God.

The box over his heart, or rather what lay inside, seemed to grow heavy. It threatened to weigh him down, but damn it all if he called it a burden. Arthur was his everything. He still _is_ that, but now Francis...

Moving on was Alfred's right. He knew that. But he couldn't. You can't just move on from someone like that! You couldn't still love someone so much and even think about considering someone else at the same time. Wasn't that cheating? If it wasn't it certainly felt like it.

Alfred could move on, but he was not ready. He was not ready to let go of Arthur, and now Francis... Oh God...

"You—" he choked on his words, "you shouldn't babble on in French and then ask something in English. S'rude dontcha think?" His voice came out low and breathy. He covered his face with his hands, horrified to know that he was crying. And more than that, failing to hold back his sobs.

Oh _God_...

Francis' eyes widened in horror. "Oh - oh my God –"

He drew back, until he hit the wall, and he sank down against it. "Oh my _God_. No. Please." He shuddered into himself. "No. I didn't - I-I didn't mean –"

He broke off and snapped his gaze up to Alfred, to shout, to demand why he had lied about knowing French, -

But he couldn't.

"I don't want to replace him," he whispered, voice thick with tears. "If you love him, you love him and there's nothing you can do. I don't - I don't want to change that. I don't want to change you. I love you. And you loving someone else is okay. I understand. Just –"

He laughed, a song of misery echoing off the walls. "Just don't _tease_ me. And next time you might want to tell me you understand French, instead of setting me up to make an ass out of myself."

That was when Alfred realized he'd spoken everything previously aloud. He was too tired to care, but if he had known it would come to this, with Francis saying those things, he would have told him he knew French.

It took a while for him to calm down. Alfred, with his face still buried in his hands, took deep breaths, then ran his hands up over his face and into his hair. Another deep breath and he turned around to see Francis on the floor. Hesitantly, he joined him, though he kept his eyes averted and to the ground.

"No. You couldn't replace Arthur, even if you wanted to. No one can or will." It was the first time he'd spoken Arthur's name out loud in months. Strangely, it felt like air and relief. "And I don't want you to. It's just... I..." Alfred clenched his fists, the gloves creaking softly. "Would you be willing to wait? For me. Even if it takes years? Granted we live that long." Alfred forced out a breathy laugh here.

"I'm confused. About you. I do like you a lot, I won't deny that. But I can't bring myself to feel _that_ strongly about you." He raised his eyes, smiling weakly at Francis though still not meeting his eyes. "And I wouldn't worry about looking like an ass. I usually am one, apparently. I just thought if you hated me, it'd make everything easier. For hurting you, I'm sorry."

Francis turned his head and smiled back with the corners of his eyes. "It's okay. I can wait. Take as much time as you need." He brushed hair out of his face, tucked it behind his ear. "It's only fair to you, and him. And –"

He turned fully to face Alfred, a little hesitant. "We _will_ still be alive, years from now. I ... we have to be."

Alfred finally sought out Francis' eyes. His own felt too wide and his calming distress probably shone brightly on his eyes. He bit his bottom lip, and before he could change his mind, he scooted next to Francis, allowing their knees to touch. He clasped his hands together, resting them on his lap.

"I'm sorry. It doesn't seem fair to ask _that_ of you, especially when you're so sure about me, but... Thank you. Francis."

"It's _fine_. I completely understand."

Francis watched the expression on Alfred's face, and this time the smile that crossed his own was slow and sweet. "Thank you for giving me a chance."

Alfred turned away briefly, eyes flickering everywhere. He caught Francis' eyes again, looked away, and back. He shyly returned the smile, though there were still worry and guilt evident in his eyes. "Yeah." He took a breath, sighing with what might have been relief. "Yeah."


End file.
